And in that dark night, the star-freckled sky harboured a thousand emotions in its breeze.

The wind rustled, it sang of unspoken sentences.
It was no different for him.

His lips were parted as if trying to seize the perfect words, but they chose to shy away from his melting mouth.

Instead, they decided to hover in his atmosphere.
They twinkled in his eyes and drew themselves on every inch of his skin. They made his lashes quiver with thought about to overspill, his toes curl and uncurl, his tongue sweep over his lower lip, all with feelings he could not bear to name.

And so the words danced, all around him, on him, drawn to what pulled them near, something that humbled his tongue.

So this is what being speechless truly feels like, he thought, licking his now-dry lips yet again, still perhaps as silent and wordless as he was minutes, ages ago.

The receiver of his attention had a fixed glance unwaveringly on him all this time.

Does it matter?
There is just such glorious truth in your silence.

The wind rustled, it sang of unspoken sentences.
Across the night
across the space between him and the other,

not a single word went unheard.

(recovered from an old notebook,
quote #85 at ricebowljournals.com)